Rose or Amaranth
by Erevus
Summary: Even after Interhigh, Machimiya Eikichi is still learning to let go. Luckily, on a hot summer day in a coffee shop, Arakita is still there to help him. MachiAra oneshot.


_Summary: Even after Interhigh, there are some things Machimiya Eikichi is learning to let go. Luckily, Arakita is still there to help him. MachiAra oneshot._

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The reason you step into the Starbucks is for a cup of ice water. About the cheapest thing-free actually-that anyone could walk out of a Starbucks holding. You've even got your name on it, "Machimiya." On a hot summer day like this, hydration was always important to you.

So when the kid with the scratchy voice behind you orders a hot Venti, spice pumpkin latte, soy milk, two pumps of vanilla, and easy on the pumpkin (is that possible?), you have to turn around and give him a sneer that stretches ear to ear.

"You fuckin' hipster," you say, while the Starbucks barista tries to figure out "easy on the pumpkin."

Arakita Yasutomo glares at you. You drop your smile because his eyes are so sharp that you feel those eyelashes prick your face. He looks past you like you're a part of the coffee bean display stand as he slides a silver credit card across the counter. "Also, three of those vanilla bean scones," he says.

You grab a seat in the corner. Across from you, a couple sits together in a booth.

In a few moments, Arakita sits across from you. It's only for a second. He stands, slinging the bag of scones onto the table. They slide and stop at the edge of your side.

"All you're gonna get is water? Eat."

He leaves the table without waiting for your response.

The couple sits on the same side, her knee-high socks sliding up and down as she rubs her leg against his.

His crotch is probably growing tight. It's disgusting.

They're sharing a comic book, hunched over it, elbows squeezed against one another.

You stare at the scones. You don't even like vanilla. Or scones.

You look back up at the couple. High school, judging from the uniforms. In the middle of her reading, she brushes some long blonde bangs from her face to dip down to his ear and smile a secret, and he laughs.

They look stupid.

A sinking feeling overcomes you; like a wound in your stomach that grows out, eating everything around it to expand, until you drop in yourself.

Arakita comes over with his hipster latte, looks to you, then to the couple.

"She's not that cute." He sits. "You haven't touched the scones."

"I don't like vanilla," you say as you drink your water.

Arakita is watching you, how the ice hugs your lips as you tilt the cup to snatch the last drops out. You can see it from the corner of your eyes-the tension building up in his eyes, so you draw out the last sips in long gulps to bide time.

"As if I care if you fucking like it or not-"

You know better than this, but that sinking feeling in your stomach says, "Thanks, though." You put the cup down. The ice in it rattles.

Arakita grips the sides of the table-stands to make a spectacle out of it; the people sitting close look up from their newspapers and crunchy caramel frappuccinos, and lo and behold, the sinking feeling snatches forth and snaps your hand around his wrist and drags him down, back into his seat.

As if you flipped a switch, the spectators resume their mundanity.

"Wh-what the hell!" Arakita screams and this time the spectators choose not to get involved. He means to lunge forward and twist your crewneck in his fist and draw your face close to his. But he's caught off guard. You've got one of his hands and there's enough hesitation in his other that you catch his hand before it reaches your neckline. With both fists on his, you pull him close instead.

There's a brief pause. And his deep breaths-you could count the seconds with those breaths-come in sudden huffs and fall onto your cheeks.

About four seconds in, you feel Arakita's hands relax in yours. The humid puffs of air warm up his face, staining his cheeks into the shade of red below rose-you learned in it a woodshop class once because it was a color she didn't like, amaranth, or something.

But you wouldn't describe the scowl stretching Arakita's face as rose or amaranth. You laugh. Rose or amaranth, he might hate to hear that.

Arakita's sharp eyes dot your face but he can't find any meaning. He takes in a breath.

"Laughing now, huh?" He bites his lip. It's a habit to calm the nerves.

A habit to calm your nerves, you lean closer. Between you and him on a hot summer's day it's become too warm but you decide to slip your leg around his leg. The muscles of his calves are hard; they're nothing at all like hers.

He looks down, as if he could see through the wood and glare at your dirty adidas shoes.

"Something's wrong, Machimiya?" he says to the table.

He's not looking, it's the perfect opportunity, so you plant your forehead firm against his.

"No, I'm fine." You smile because no matter how fucking stupid it looks, twisted up with Arakita-heads together, hands together, legs together-with his stupid amaranth-blushing face that won't even look up at you; the sinking feeling is gone.

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**A/N:** _Thanks for reading. If you liked it, please send me a quick review!_

_I love MachiAra a lot so this ended up happening at some random 8 in the morning._


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